HALLOWEEN: Panic Room 221 B
by KayMoon24
Summary: It is a dark and stormy night- while watching horror movies, John is called away, and Sherlock is trapped with a clingy, terrified Sarah. Then  everything starts to go wrong. How can our sociopath deal with this annoyance?  Final chapter up!
1. The 'Sarah' Problem

A late, very, **_very_** late 'Halloween/October Fest' Special! I apologize to any Brit-nit-pickers out there for any mistakes! A HUGE Shout out goes to:**_ Charm and Strange_** for being a fantastic BETA! :D  
Please enjoy. :)

Takes place recently after **"The Blind Banker."**

* * *

It was raining outside of flat 221 B, one of those soft, pitter-pattering rains that made Sherlock feel as if an electric current was running all throughout his body. Even so, there was no where to go in such weather that wouldn't thoroughly electrocute him. As if to make matters worse, these were the kinds of days that made John feel particularly sleepy and just want to curl up on the sofa and watch a movie. That was usually damn near impossible considering Sherlock's indignation towards flicks, but John had a secret weapon this time that would block any logical argument of refusal that the detective could conjure up. If he refused, Sherlock was to simply be out voted. And besides, John was delighted in finally obtaining the upper hand over his impervious flatmate.

Finger ready to go on the control, John eagerly awaited his girlfriend Sarah's arrival. He had been looking forward towards their wonderful, warm night together all day, and it was now nearly 9 pm. Finally, someone lightly tapped on the door; John quickly opened it and was embraced by Sarah. She bounded into the sitting room and nearly collided with Sherlock.

"Oh, hello," she chimed happily, holding out two DVD cases. Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow and tiled his head to look at John.

"You didn't tell me we were having company."

John smiled. "Yes, well, I thought it'd be a nice night for a movie."

Sherlock immediately opened his mouth to object, but John had already planned ahead. He quickly put his arm around Sarah, giving her a gentle squeeze. "_Sarah_ and I are going to watch the movies, Sherlock. No one's going to force you. You're welcome to join us though, if you like."

Sherlock looked down seriously at the DVD cases, considering John's offer. Most movies were so utterly predicable and uninteresting to him. "It's not those stupid '_James Bond_' movies you're always going on about getting me to watch, is it?"

John laughed, and quickly popped open the cases and walked over to insert the first movie into the telly's player. "No—but I _am_ going to make you watch one of those, just you wait,"

"We're going to be watching horror movies!" Sarah chimed in merrily from the couch, already wrapping herself in a blanket to dry off.

"_Horror_ movies?" Sherlock echoed dryly. "Oh God, John, you _can't_ be serious."

"What? The weather's perfect! All nice and dark and stormy. It's practically _screaming _terror tonight."

"Oh yes, the water cycle and cold darkness. Seems more likely you'll catch an _illness_ than be _murdered_." Sherlock scoffed, making his way across the room.

"Don't mind him," John smirked to Sarah. "He's not much of a movie buff."

"I can tell," Sarah giggled, scooting over on the couch to make room for John to plop down beside her. "I'm excited!"

"Me too," John replied simply, smiling once more.

Sherlock only gave a dramatic sigh and left the room with an energetic bound in his step. He _hated_ being forced to _watch_ John and Sarah be all romantic, let alone _listen_ to it. For the next hour, Sherlock tried to entertain himself with just about everything he could think of, from dropping the toaster into the bathtub to reloading John's gun and shooting another smiley face into Mrs. Hudson's wall. He had to stop himself from carrying out the ladder idea though; John had already told him once to stop being so loud in his boredom, and so there was no way he'd let him get away with gunfire again. He even resorted to his dear skull for amusement, but even his relentless toothy smile wasn't providing polite conversation.

Finally, Sherlock Holmes had to face it—he was bored. So. Utterly. _Bored_. The last option of entertainment seemed so utterly degrading…but…what other choice did he have? Slowly, and more like a sulking teenager than not, Sherlock trotted back into the sitting room and sat down in an armchair off to the side of the couch. He refused to look at the moving images before him on the telly's screen, and settled for sighing dramatically into his hands, feeling the air rush out between his fingers.

"You're interrupting the movie, Sherlock." John muttered, his voice low and clearly transfixed by the people on the screen. Sherlock rolled his eyes in the darkness, wondering how far he could force his eyeballs into the back of his skull. Suddenly he heard Sarah give a small squeak and Sherlock refocused his eyes, thankful for the shadows hiding the disgusted look on his face just as Sarah buried herself into John's side. To distract himself, Sherlock glanced at screen.

"The murderer is her brother," Sherlock drawled, channeling all of his soulful boredom into his vocal cords. "And he's going to trip and miss the heroine in…right now…" The knife welding murder on the screen indeed, missed, just as Sherlock had said. Sherlock didn't even blink as he felt his IQ dropping painfully. He sighed. "Now, she's going to pick up a conveniently placed pan, and hit him-"

"_Sherlock_!" John hissed, his blue eyes now focused on him. Sarah stared at Sherlock, wide-eyed.

"Have you _seen_ this movie before?" her was tone perplexed as she leaned in close.

Sherlock smiled an unfriendly smile back at her silhouette. "No."

John narrowed his eyes at him, and the movie continued without Sherlock's intrusions.

Another hour in, and Sherlock looked over this time to see that John had simply fallen asleep, his head resting on Sarah's shoulder. The next movie's opening was just beginning, at only six minutes in. He let his breath go, not realizing he had been holding it in for so very long, as it hissed out from between his teeth. _Great, now there's no one to tell her to go home-  
_  
_**Beep-beeep-beeep-beep!**__-_ suddenly something flashed an alarming shade of red in the darkness, and John abruptly woke up, twisting clumsily for his mobile.

"Wha-?…Oh no.." he groaned, suddenly standing up and stretching out his arms. "There's been a horrible accident up on-" He sighed again and he continued to read his newest text, letting his eyes flicker across the tiny, white screen, squinting them against the light. "Apparently they're calling the extra on-call staff in." He turned his eyes regretfully to Sarah, whom looked up with a look of equal disappointment

"I'm so sorry Sarah. I've got to leave, and I doubt I'll be back till the morning, from the sounds of it all." Sarah quickly stood, and hugged John again. Sherlock suppressed a scoff and scowled in the darkness, looking away.

"It's quite alright," Sarah replied calmly. "It happens."

To Sherlock's utter delight, she began to reach for her purse when suddenly, John said the most _damning_ words Sherlock had ever heard him utter: "No, no, you can't leave! Not this late in this weather!"

Sherlock's had to force his jaw into a locked position to stop it from hanging open, as he watched John make a rather ridiculous gesture towards the door. "No, please, it's the least we can do." Sherlock nearly growled at the term 'we'. "You've allowed me to stay over, please, will you stay?"

Sarah looked nervous for a minute, and then strangely guilty. Was it only Sherlock seeing that she obviously _didn't_ want to stay?

"Sure." She finally answered. _No!_ Sherlock yelled in his head, his long, pale fingers gripping the arms of the chair in strictly contained rage.

John smiled widely, his eyes light. "Wonderful! You can have my room, if you like. I won't be back till morning. Er, if that's-"

"It's fine." Sarah finished awkwardly.  
_  
Great._ Sherlock thought, watching the flat's door close softly shut after John and Sarah had said goodbye for the nauseatingly hundredth time. Not only was Sherlock being forced to watch _another_ horrible movie—but now he was stuck awkwardly with John's annoying girlfriend.

After a moment, an uncomfortable silence settled across the sitting room. Sarah however, tried to break the ice by turning and asking merrily of Sherlock:

"D'you want to keep watching the movie?" Her lips were held in a light smile and her eyes bright and cheerful. Sherlock only stared coldly back, wondering how much of his IQ was dropping just by listening to her talk. Sherlock merely blinked slowly, and gave a long, drawn out sigh.

"No."

"No?" Sarah looked taken aback, and her lips formed into a pout which undoubtedly made John lose some kind of his dignity and give into her. For Sherlock however, it only made him want to do horrible violent actions to small adolescent dogs. "Why not? I think it's really great!"

Sherlock fought the urge to inform Sarah that her definition of '_Great_' must be confused with the actual definition of '_Morbidly stupid'_. But then again, in his opinion, Sarah didn't even know what a dictionary was. He settled with saying "because I'd only be wasting my time by watching this movie a mere minute longer."

In only the first three minutes into the film, he had already figured out whom the murder was, how the hero, and all his friends, would presumably die—and that was with Sherlock not even _trying_ to watch the blasted thing! Not to mention he had already concluded the very split second associated with all monotone horror movies where the said actor would save his love interest at the very last moment, and in that same second, stop the killer for good. Thus would ensure the soul-crushingly gooey, lovesick ending. Sherlock internally shuddered at the '_love interest'_ bit. Why did every damn film hero require a 'love interest'? Couldn't they just be bloody happy with their huge success of watching the mass murderer conveniently fall down the stairs to his doom, and be done with it?

"Well, for one, it's painstakingly obvious that the killer is—" Sherlock paused. "What…_are_ you doing?" He curiously looked on as Sarah placed a palm over each ear and pressed in hard.

"I'm making sure you don't ruin the plot of the movie for me." Sarah replied, her voice rising a few decibels higher than normal speaking required. Sherlock rolled his eyes in the darkness.

"Ruin?" He gasped from his spot. "This movie should be in _ruins_! Cut to ragged little bits! All the actors fired and the director seriously dealt with and forced out of film industry all together!" Sherlock huffed, before reaching for a random book within grasp of the armchair and flipping it open. "Ruin the movie," he muttered. "As if _I _could hurt it further."

Sarah simply slowly pulled down her hands. "So then I may still watch it?"

Sherlock refused to tear his eyes away from the pages long enough to respond to her. Sarah quickly tapped the 'play' button again on the DVD controller, and the movie played on.

_Surely, I am going insane. Fascinating, _Sherlock thought to himself after an entire hour had gone by. In those 60 minutes, all of the books he had picked up had seemed to repeat the word 'bored' in long lines of typed print. He flipped through a few pages—_bored, bored, bored, bored_—and then ultimately turned the book upside down. _Oh clever; now it's read as_ '_boring_'. But even if he was dreadfully bored, at least inside his own mind, things were quiet. Outside, however, was a different story.

Sherlock was sure the noise had started at exactly 12:38 am, and it was now 1:05. It was an obnoxious noise. A _huff, sniff, sniffle, sniiiiffle, huff, huff_. The sound of abnormal breathing, mixed with the pressure to stay quiet. Sherlock inclined his head to Sarah, as if to say 'I've heard you this _entire_ time, you know', but the words never left his lips. So he waited impatiently in the darkness once more.  
_  
Sniff. Sniff. Huuuff._

_Hufff. Sniff, snifffff._

_Huff, huff, huuffff, sniff._

_Snifff—_

Sherlock's left eyebrow was twitching now. He didn't particularly care if indeed Sarah was 'all right', but the noise _had_ to stop. Slowly he turned his head in her shadowed direction on the couch.

"Are you…all right?" The question felt as foreign to his lips as the very phrase was to say.

"F-fine." Sarah stuttered out a little too quickly, her breathing hitching once more.

Sherlock ran through the movie scenes that he could recall—nearly the whole movie—as it played from the corner of his peripheral vision, while he had been reading. He quickly recalled the time of 12:38, and played the scene back to himself.

_It was dark—_thunder rumbled from the outside_—and slowly the white masked killer moved towards the girl, rope in hand. The one-dimensional teenaged idiot hero jumped stupidly to defend her, but was stuck down by the killer, leading to that utterly unremarkable __unconsciousness__ that every male lead seems to suffer from when they are hit in the head but any force more than a __tap__. Terrified, the girl tried to run, but she tripped on an unnoticed floorboard, and breathing heavily, the killer stalked towards her. The rope clenched in his hands was slimy; sickeningly glittering with fresh blood in the moonlight. He quickly gripped the girl's ankle, and snapped it like a twig, breaking her foot. He then began wrapping her with the rope—_

Sherlock stopped. The stupid noises had begun there. So the main heroine was being kidnapped, so what? It didn't seem particularly frightening to Sherlock. The villain hadn't even properly _killed_ anyone yet. Sherlock shrugged, trying to his best to further ignore the noises now. He'd lost interest in the matter. A few minutes later, however, Sarah asked in a very small voice, "Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't respond. His eyes simply froze in place in annoyance. He stiffed, and awaited whatever Sarah was asking of him.

"Sherlock…?" Her voice wavered again on his name. Sherlock still didn't move. He listened carefully however, and realized that he could practically hear Sarah's heart beating madly in her chest. How… curious. He closed his eyes, and listened further.

"Sherlock..?" Sherlock's nails dug into the book's cover. He now heard her breathing picking up. She was twitching, her blood pressure raising, her chest muscles tightening, along with her neck; Constricting her vocal cords, suffocating the proper air supply to her brain which leads to illogical thinking and—

"_S-__S__herlock__…?__"_ Sarah's voice piped up to a high octave, and Sherlock's brows furrowed. _Panic._

"I heard you the first time." Sherlock answered slowly. "I was simply waiting for whatever it was you were planning to ask."

"Oh," came the stunned reply.

"Well?" Sherlock growled.

"Could you turn off the movie…please?" Came the whisper from the couch.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock questioned cruelly. Was it considered…'not good' for him to be doing this to her? Damn. If only John was here to ask. _Oh._ Sherlock quickly found that a disapproving look from John had already manifest it's self in his mind's eye. Argh! But he just couldn't stop! She was so _infuriating_—and besides, _he_ left her here!

"Turn it off." Sarah tried leveling her voice, taking an awkward breath. "Please."

Sherlock slowly met her wide-eyed glance. Oh God, is she…_crying?_ Suddenly the bored perspective flipped around entirely for the detective. Now, he was strangely intrigued.

"I thought you said you liked this movie." Sherlock smirked in the shadows.

"Well, I was wrong." She laughed a strange, breathless laugh.

"Alright." Sherlock said nonchalantly, and he slowly rose from his spot. He carefully walked to the telly, his finger just above the 'Off' button on its player.

"Are you—"

"_Yes!_" Sarah squeaked. Sherlock couldn't help but smile. _No John to burrow into now, eh?_

Suddenly, just as Sherlock had set his finger on the button, a huge crash of lighting shook the sky, and the power went completely off in a blinding flash. In the dead of the dark, Sarah let out a long, completely terrified shrill scream, and Sherlock dropped to his knees, taken completely off guard, his hands clamped over his ears.

"Was that completely _necessary?_" He yelled through Sarah's cry. It was like some horrid cat was scraping its claws right into his ear canal. _Women! _Sherlock cursed in his mind, the hairs on the back of his neck bristling.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Sarah replied breathlessly from the couch, her back arching and digging as hard as she could into its cushions for protection. "I just—I just didn't expect that."

Sherlock rose from knees, twisting a finger into his ear to inspect the damage. Sadly it was much too dark in the room now to properly see if there was any blood when he tried to study his index finger. He then turned his full attention back to Sarah.

"You didn't expect for there for to be _lighting_ during a storm?" His voice rose from his pure exasperation of her statement. The two couldn't see any feature of one another in the darkness, but Sarah's watery eyes were glaring in defiance.

"I meant that I didn't expect for the power to go down! This unnatural darkness... I'm..I'm scared of the dark, okay? Happy?"

Sherlock was no where near the 'neutral' in his limited emotional spectrum- let alone 'happy'. "This darkness isn't _un_natural." He drawled, his eyebrows furrowing in annoyance at Sarah's ignorant fear.

"If anything," he continued, "it's how it's intended to be. Lightning discharges an excess of positive and negative charge within clouds, between clouds, or between clouds and the ground. Often lightning striking between two clouds is occurring as rapidly as lightening strikes between clouds and the ground. It's scientifically natural in cases of lighting striking and frying the back up generator causing—"

"I _know_ what it is." Sarah replied hastily from the couch, reaching up to wrap her arms tighter around herself. "But that doesn't make it any less scary—to me," she quickly added. Sherlock simply pulled himself back into the armchair, closing his eyes and listening to the clashing thunder outside. There was an awkward pause in Sarah's breathing, Sherlock noticed, as she opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it again. A minute of soft popping sounds indicated that she was really going to use her vocal cords this time.

"Um…Sherlock? Do…you happen to know where the candles are?" Her voice trembled.

_Oh._ Oh, yes. Sherlock's eyes suddenly opened up a bit wider in foreign realization. _That's _what you're supposed to do for people in this situation. Give them—Sherlock internally cringed—_comfort__._

Sherlock sighed into his palm, feeling it warm up in the coolness of the room. "I usually make a mark of not buying matches and candles—it only adds to the encouragement of smoking. But, ah, I'll see what I can find."

And with that, Sherlock sprang from his chair and into the kitchen.


	2. The Skull Solution

**Author's note:** _*Updated and now, in it's proper form. BETA'D thanks to the ever fantastic **Charm and Strange**! Thank you again! Also, once more, a huge thank you to everyone that's alerted/favourited! Hopefully this lil' fic won't turn out too bad._

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"Oh, oh, oh my God!" Sarah cried, gripping the blankets frantically around her as Sherlock's highlighted shadow prowled across the walls. "Is- is- is that a _skull_?"

Sherlock glanced at the object he held in the palm of his hands, watching the candle flickering neatly inside of it. "Yes, a human skull, actually. What of it?"

"You…you don't any more of those…do you?" She asked nervously, her eyes never leaving the glowing cranium.

"Of the candles? No—"

"No…" Sarah squeaked, and she hesitantly pointed towards the skull.

"God, I _wish_!" Sherlock lamented, taking a step forward to set the skull upon the coffee table. Curiously, Sherlock noticed that whenever he breached a certain perimeter of distance towards Sarah, she'd quickly draw back, as if—Sherlock licked his lips curiously—as_ if-  
_  
"You aren't afraid of me, are you?" Sherlock asked cheerfully, not even bothering to keep the amused tone out of his voice.

"N-no." Sarah said shakily, her eyes flashing to Sherlock and then back to the skull. "It's just,"

She stopped, her shoulders shuddering. There was a pause, and then finally, Sarah admitted: "John just… tells me things, is all."

Sherlock's eyes lit up and his mouth curled into an interested smile for once as his long, pale fingers pressed together. "Things? What kinds of things?"

Sarah suddenly looked all the more agitated—Sherlock's perceptive eyes could even see the minute beads of sweat forming along her mouth and hairline. She glanced around uneasily, as if her answer would cause something to leap out at her from the pitch black darkness.

"Things like…that you…you keep disembodied heads in the refrigerator. That you...you beat corpses…" Sarah's voice dropped off into a hush just as Sherlock's broke out into a hearty fit of laughter.

"Ah yes well," Sherlock paused for dramatic effect—wondering how he could use Sarah's fear of him to an advantage. "John isn't one to lie." Sherlock then sighed, sitting down once more in the armchair. He studied Sarah's reaction carefully. "Still unsure?"

Sarah made a small noise in the back of her throat.

"You can go check, if you like." Sherlock continued. He then sighed as he noticed a large tremor running up her right arm. "Look, I can promise you that there's nothing dead in here, well, except the skull." Sherlock paused again, considering. "At least for tonight."

Sarah nodded slowly, and sank back down onto the couch, her right leg bouncing restlessly. "Thank you."

Sherlock only wanted to kick himself now. Why tell her such a thing? He could spend the rest of the night recounting all the wonderfully unique specimens he had hidden throughout the flat, including the ones that John didn't even know about. He now desperately wished that something would happen. Something horribly 'scary', as John would call it. But with the power out, many things were suddenly at a loss. He couldn't pop in another 'terrifying' movie, and he couldn't wire some type of spooky sound effects to echo through the walls. He did have rope, however. But, in retrospect, that could possibly be taking things a bit…far.

He contented himself to glancing to the windows. The wind outside was picking up maddeningly, and with every pop, squeak and crack that they made, Sarah's heart rate increased. The door shuddered, and Sherlock wondered calmly if the letters on the front would remain there the entire night. Lighting crashed, and lit up the room briefly, sending multitudes of shadows and other crawling silhouettes across the floor and kitchen. Sherlock smiled every time the shadows changed and molded; he merely saw bits of retreating light. Sarah saw everything much differently, however. She gasped in fear and shock after every strike.

Every lighting bolt was the floodlight of a kidnaper's flashlight. Every crack and scratch was another fear come to life, even her silly childhood ones—ones of Freddy Krueger running his long, rusty metal claws across the window. Every shadow was rising from the walls and the carpet as if by black magic, and she felt claustrophobia gripping her shoulders. Every chill was a ghost trying to touch her. When the wind howled, a dying scream lingered on the wind. When the door rattled, some huge brute with chains, guns, and God knows what else was about to break in the door. When she blinked, in the split second darkness behind her lids, she saw dripping smiles and heard her pleading screams. She saw John being knocked out and beaten and her being captured and roughly tied with ropes. _Always_ ropes.

Her breathing hitched in her throat. Her chest burned from her poor blood circulation from her position. She needed John, and she needed him _now._ John was safe. John was warm—John knew what to do, what to say. What to say! But all she bloody had was his creepy, lunatic roommate. And that only made the atmosphere all the most uncomfortable. The last time she was over, horrible men _did _break in—and all over Sherlock Holmes. All because of bloody wretched _Sherlock Holmes!_ As far as Sarah was concerned, John should drop this…no.

She stared back up at Sherlock, whose eyes never seemed to blink. He wasn't _human_. These thoughts raced around in her mind and only made her all the more frightened.

"Are you _sure_ this is all you have?" Sarah shivered into her question. Sherlock merely glanced to the windows, watching the rain pound against the glass. "Sherlock?"

"You know, there's a graveyard nearby," Sherlock said, his voice cold once more. "But unless you prefer I go out into this storm and bring back another dead body part to stick a candle in, I believe this is all we have." Sarah suddenly felt very ill.

Sarah tucked herself a bit further into her blanket, but Sherlock merely scowled at her weak notions. He was getting bored of the way her body reacted to the weather. Something needed to _happen. _Suddenly, Sherlock felt it—a _panic attack_. He could nearly feel the sickly unease as it radiated off of her, and he found himself cringing away from Sarah. He certainly wanted to scare her into possibly _never_ coming back here again—or near John, for that matter—but for her to be _sick_ in his flat, on Mrs. Hudson's carpet…

He pictured John's face, and wondered briefly if all the hell he'd receive for it would be worth it. It was one thing to help someone not be afraid. It was another thing _entirely_ if they were ill_._ Reluctantly, Sherlock sighed, and took a chance to control the matter.

"Does this kind of thing happen a lot?" Sherlock finally pressed, leaning towards her with one elbow on his knee. Sarah only met his eyes for a second.

"What thing?"

"The whole _panic attack_ thing."

Sarah's eyes widened, and then she looked away, as if insulted. "I don't know what you are talking about."

She cringed inside, her stomach churning in anxiety, tears that Sherlock couldn't see brimming in her eyes. She had to be strong like...like John would have told her to be. Right? _Right?_

Sherlock broke out into a wide smile. She trembled.

"Ah, there you go again."

"What?"

"You're lying. You've been lying for most of the entire night since John's departure." Sarah opened her mouth as if to snap back a crude remark, but Sherlock cut her off. "And don't deny that either! I can tell you're lying—and by denying it you're only adding to my collected observations. You're not good at hiding it, either. Not by a long shot."

Sarah's eyes narrowed, but her right leg only bounced more. "You know..." Sherlock drawled on, strangely interested again as he watched her panic manifest itself into her muscles. "They say the first reaction someone has when faced with a crisis is denial. So, maybe you don't even know that you are lying." He paused, a finger to lips.

"…Or maybe you do. Perhaps you're just trying to calm yourself down? …Like you were before, with your pitiful breathing exercise. You're doing it wrong, by the way," he added condescendingly.

"Excuse me?" Sarah snapped back, her eyes wide.

"_Breathing._" Sherlock dramatically slowed down his pronunciation of the word, so that Sarah's brain could understand. "You are doing it _wrong." _

Sarah only rolled her eyes towards the ceiling in the flickering candlelight. Sherlock continued regardless.

"The first basic step to keeping your head in a traumatic situation is breathing through the nose and out the mouth."

Sarah finally met Sherlock's dark gaze. _How would __you__ know?_ Her rolling thoughts angrily buzzed. _You've never had to go through anything! Nothing like __I__ did!_ She couldn't breathe. More tears. She wanted to scream at him, but all that came out was: "You make it seem like I'm about to go into hysterics."

Sherlock merely ran a hand through his hair exasperatedly. "I swear, does anyone but me actually _listen_ to what they're saying? Yes, you _are_ close to hysterics. But it's not just that. I think, _Sarah_," He hissed out her name in his short breath, "that you are prone to panic attacks. Post traumatic stress syndrome, possibly." Sherlock stopped once more as a curious thought flickered past his brain. "Does John know about this?"

Sarah quickly gripped tighter at the blankets around her. "Yes. He does. So…please…stop."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes hatefully. _Fantastic. Bloody brilliant. Thanks for informing me, John._

"Stop?" Sherlock snapped, rising from his chair. "Stop what? Receiving information that I should have already been informed of?"

"You make it seem like I'm some type of _mental_ patient!" Sarah squealed out, shrinking down at a heavy belt of rain that collided with the windows, shaking them harder than ever.

"John should have told me about this! He knows…he knows how…" Sherlock trailed off, running his fingers through his dark curls once more. _He knows that I don't know what to do with the ridiculousness of people!_

The talk of John made Sarah feel a bit better, made the sickness fade slightly. Suddenly a blast of thunder shook the sky so roughly it made the pictures on the walls twist at a disheveled angle, and Sarah couldn't hold in her pitiful whimper. Sherlock only made his disdain over Sarah more apparent, and it sparked something in her. Something that she'd been wanting to say for quite a while._  
_  
"John doesn't have to tell you everything you know," Sarah huffed out, dragging a useless breath in through her mouth. "You're…you're so damn _possessive_ of him! Do you know that- that he doesn't _sleep_, because of all you put him through? That he's lost weight! That he sometimes is so stressed out that his left hand trembles from all the stress you—."

Sherlock froze, and he couldn't hear Sarah anymore. His already short temper had suddenly ratcheted up to anger. He felt like he was short-circuiting. _As if she knows more about John than I do__!_

_"_What? Are those the signs of him acting like a mental patient?" He yelled.

"No!" Sarah raged. "If anyone's the goddamn bloody mental patient around here, it's _YOU!"_

Sherlock turned, truly only focused on her spiteful words of his effecting John. They grinded more than her thoughts over his own odd tendencies.

"John's hand only goes into fits of tremors when he's not under stress! He _enjoys_ it! He enjoys the feeling of danger, and action, because he's not afraid to break free from the mundane rut of normal, dull human life—and live! But—really, no." Sherlock stalked towards her, his nostrils flaring, his eyes bright and sparkling. Sarah crushed herself more against the couch.

"Seeing as you seem to know John and I so very well, tell me, why did I—in all of my madness—still retrieve a candle for you? To help quell your pitiful, whiny, perpetual fears?"

"It's a candle in a _skull!_" Sarah shrieked in her defense, and suddenly Sherlock stood over her, his thin frame heaving with dark, heavy, livid breaths.

"So…my being a _mental patient_ and all…" Sherlock's voice clicked angrily over his consonants as he growled, "You can't possibly expect for me to be _warm_ and _comforting_, correct?"

Sarah only continued to gape at him, speechless under his scathing gaze. He slowly licked his fingers and lowered them over the only candle in the entire flat—straight over the skull, straight over the burning wick, and strait over the only light in Sarah's escalating nightmare.

"You…you wouldn't..." She whispered out.

"You tell me Sarah, seeing as you seem to know John and I so well—what _would_ I do?" Sherlock's voice was cold, and full of some type of detachment.

"Y-you- you wouldn't! It's the only candle, you said—" She gasped out, her eyes wide.

"That," Sherlock growled, "…is where you're wrong about me. And further more, about _John_."

And with that, Sherlock grasped up the skull, clasped the fiery wick, and ripped it from its confines of dripping wax—burning his fingers in the process. But now, at least, the candle was unusable. The wick fell to the carpet with a soft pat, and the light snuffed out. Everything went impossibly, and inescapably, black for them both.


	3. The Mobile Factor

**Author's Note:** I really, really hope you enjoy this chapter guys. It's rather long, but I worked very hard on it. Special, special, VERY special thanks to Syberiawin, and her lovely ideas. Her idea was the idea of Sarah leaving (as a few of you had already mentioned as well), and getting into all the trouble, and the candle scene- and well, you'll see. Also, HUGE thank you for my lovely BETA _**Charm and Strange**_. Please enjoy. Terribly sorry for the ridiculous delay for this last part. It'll be up as soon as I get a moment.

* * *

"I…I can't believe you just did that..." Sarah's voice was quiet and weak Sherlock merely grunted as he twisted his scalding fingers from the melting wax of the candle, ripping off some of his skin in the process. His mind processed the pain, but was too angry to care.

"It's only what a mental patient would do, isn't it?" He growled back, moving in the darkness to his spot in the armchair. He smoothly pulled his knees up to his chin, his eyes once more tracing the drops racing across the windowpanes. Sherlock's perceptive eyes were able to catch glimpses of light from the constantly whipping wind and crackling lightning. Sarah, however, was at a lost in the darkness, fuming over the last wisps of the destroyed candle.

She tried to feel for the wick along the carpet floor at her feet, but soon realized that option was hopeless. She could feel her own claustrophobia crawling in; the walls seemed to be closer now—a bit too close. A few strands of hair fell into her face, and she quickly blew a puff of air over her face to blow them away, realizing just how much she was sweating by the feel of the cool air rushing over her face.

Her fear was rising, more and more, and she nearly turned to Sherlock once again—Sherlock, who was perched high on his chair and actually looked disinterested and even bored—to help her look for the candle. She bit her tongue to stop herself from pathetically reaching out to him for help-even so some type of sick comfort that he could give. _How could he be doing this to me? What did I ever do to him?_ Sarah gripped the blankets closer around her. _He…he doesn't care at all, does he? He's the complete opposite of John! _She wanted Sherlock to look at her face and see what exactly she thought of him, but she knew couldn't see her from where he was sitting. She continued to glare at him, trembling, her breath once more escaping her lips in an uncontrollable rush. Chills ran up her spine. The T.V. had been off for a while now, and yet she could still see the killer—still _see_ the girl being broken and dragged away—

_Hiff, hiff, hic, hifff—_

_Sniff, hiff, hiff,_

_hifff, hifffff—_

"I told you already." Sherlock lithely crossed one leg over the other. "Breathe in through your nose first."

"W-what?" Sarah squeaked out, meaning to sound as angry as she felt inside and failing miserably. A mix of fear, rage, and disbelief ran through her. Sherlock slowly turned to look at her silhouette as another powerful bolt of lightning jolted the night sky and highlighted them both for a moment. He sighed into his kneecap. _Stupid, stupid, stupid girl..._he murmured to himself, his brows furrowing.

"Do I have to remind you how to breathe again?" Sherlock drawled, his perceptive eyes taking in all of Sarah's ridiculous panic in one fell swoop.

That was _it._ Sarah couldn't take it anymore.

"I'm sorry, does my breathing bother you?"

"Only when you're doing something as simple as _breathing_ incorrectly." Sherlock flicked his eyes back to her. _Argh!_ Sarah raged internally. _How does John put up with him?_

"You...you don't even _care_, do you? I just…I just can't believe…I…I don't care what John says!" Sarah balled her hands tightly into two trembling fists, not getting enough air into her lungs. She tripped over a few disarranged pillows on the floor, grasping for what she hoped was her purse. _I'm sorry John, but I can't stay here…not with him.  
_  
Sherlock suddenly raised an eyebrow, trying not to take interest in what the frightened, stupid woman was doing now. Sarah quickly scuffled her way to the flat's door, her fist grasping the handle a bit too tightly for normal opening. Suddenly, she pulled very roughly and the door flew open with a great _bang_, smacking against the wall, and a flood of water and wind rushed in all at once, wetting the floor and streaking the wallpaper. Sherlock's eyes widened, and he jumped up, alarmed.

"What _are_ you doing?"

"You're horrible Sherlock! _Horrible!_" Sarah screamed back at him, tears mingling with the rain that was furiously whipping at her face and clothes. Already she was getting profusely wet.

"Yes," Sherlock quickly made his way to her, covering his eyes from the blasts of heavy raindrops. "I've been told! —But that doesn't explain what the hell you're doing!"

"You're the goddamn _genius!_" She cried, weaving her way down the flat's steps but only moving only when the crashes of lightning allowed her to see. "You figure it out!"

Sherlock rapidly began reaching for his coat, but stopped, awkwardly centering himself around the frame of the door and squinting at Sarah's retreating figure. "If you're leaving, I think you're seriously an idiot! Stupid even! A mad, stupid idiot! It's more horrible out there than in here!"

"I beg to differ!" Sarah continued, hot tears streaking her cheeks as she realized just what she was doing. She was going to brave the storm—alone—in the dark. Without John.

_"Obviously!"_ Sherlock cried back exasperatedly. "You can't truly think I'm going to let you walk home in this mess? You're going to catch a horrendous illness if you stay in it long—and besides—a young woman, walking the streets alone in _this_? You could be attacked, mugged!"

Of course, Sherlock yelling these profanities only made Sarah's terrified thoughts speed up. She forced herself forward, desperate, wide-eyed, and gasping silently for air she couldn't seem to get. Even so, she still managed to fight back with: "What? Do you actually _care _now?"

"Don't flatter yourself!" Sherlock gripped his coat from the stand, his eyes still on Sarah. The white in his knuckles peered through translucently pale skin as he clenched the dry cloth. "It just doesn't seem like a 'good' thing to let you walk home when—when you can't even breathe properly!"

'_Good'? What the hell?_ Sarah's eyebrows furrowed and she stomped angrily through a puddle. She was nearly half way up the street now. Only what seemed like a hundred more streets to go. A very _long_, and very _slow_ hundred more streets to walk. She couldn't seem to find a cab anywhere she looked.

"Better not breathing out here than staying with _you!_" Sarah yelled back over the howling wind.

"Whatever! It's through your _mouth!_ By the way!" Sherlock screamed back, grasping the door and slamming it shut with a deep slosh of the water at his feet. He took a deep breath, rain dripping from his dark hair, and then turned back to face his situation.

He was going to be bored soon. Very, very _bored. _Soon, he found himself in his favorite armchair, and ran his fingers through his drenched curls. _Why does the power have to be out for so long?_

Suddenly a fantastic realization flew across Sherlock's mind, and he quickly ran for his coat once more, and pulled out his mobile—a satisfied smile gliding into place as it lit up brightly in his palm.

"Ah," he sat down again, flipping through a few web sites, and then old pictures of solved cases, wondering if he should delete them soon. Suddenly he found a picture of John, and a strange feeling ran down Sherlock's spine. He didn't understand exactly what it meant, but it certainly didn't feel good. Perhaps it was being suddenly exposed to the rain and cold that was triggering an influx of warmth in his body?

Sherlock sighed again, feeling the familiar dullness set in as the excitement dropped quickly like a drug high. _Damn. When is John going to be home?_ Sherlock stretched out, his knees bent to his chest and his elbows prompted awkwardly to his sides. He quickly scrolled to John's name, and sent a text.

_John, when are you going to be home? The power's out. It's so boring here._

_SH_

Suddenly a loud noise alerted Sherlock's dulling senses to stimulation as he heard another phone go off near him. _John's mobile_. Sherlock's thoughts quickly processed. _He must have left it here in his rush to the hospital._ A small gap of light protruded from the couch's cushions, and, curious, Sherlock leapt to the seat and fished it from the depths. Suddenly Sherlock's eyes flew open wide. _John's phone!_ What interesting things would he find here…?

Sherlock quickly hacked John's password, and then hit the closet thing to him, and suddenly he was at John's texting inbox. He saw a few co-workers' boring texts, his own, and then Sarah's. Sherlock felt his lips twitch in annoyance at the thought of Sarah once more. Reluctantly, he hit the button and it opened their nauseating texts.

_**John (6:04 pm):**__ I can't wait for tonight! I've been looking forward to this for weeks. Sherlock never wants to watch anything like this._

_**Sarah (6:06 pm):**__ Me too! Me too! : - D I'll be sure to chose really scary ones, and maybe he'll want to watch it with us?_

_**John: (7:37 pm):**__ Sorry, had to deal with some bloke choking on his own blood. You're very lucky you're off today—did I mention that?_

_**Sarah (7:40 pm):**__ You did, several times. I miss you, John. I can't wait to watch these with you. _

_**John (7:49 pm):**__ I miss you too. Same here. And don't worry about Sherlock—if he wants too, he will. I won't let him ruin our night._

_**Sarah (8:11 pm**__): Oh come on, he can't be that bad! It's nearly time! ^.^ I suppose the only question left is: Will you be able to stay awake through all of these? I rented 2._

_**John (8:12 pm):**__ Of course I will. Don't worry, I won't leave you alone like that. Come on over!_

_**Sarah: (8:14 pm):**__ BTS!  
_  
Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he sped through the messages. Ugh, Sarah even used those annoying 'emotion icons' that Mycroft's assistant sometimes messaged him with. Sherlock tossed John's phone away. Then, it lit back up.

Sherlock's eyebrow rose. Slowly, he flopped back onto the couch, and brought it back into his view. It was a new text from Sarah.  
_  
__**Sarah: (2:09 am):**__ Johnn, please come get me. I know you're busy, __but I__ can't find my way back home. had to leave Sherloock's, he'sdfs. I don't know this street, or where I am. The wind is way too __strong and__ the rainn is really rough. can't find a cab anywhere._

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, his eyes tracing each word, understand that her typos had to be her fingers slipping over the wet phone keys. Just then, John's disapproving glare suddenly flashed in his mind like a punch to the stomach and the text from John's phone danced across his mind: _'Don't worry, I won't let him ruin our night.'_  
_  
Not. Good_._  
_  
_Oh no._ Sherlock wanted to smack himself. _If, if something happens to that bloody, infuriating girl, John will never forgive me..._Sherlock quickly tapped out over the keys— angry—and a little unsure to what exactly he was planning to do.

**John (2:11 am):** _Don't worry. Stop walking. I'm coming to get you. Tell me your surroundings as best you can. I'll be there soon._

Sherlock quickly hit the 'send' button, and leapt off the cushion. He shrugged on his coat and opened the door, starting off in the direction Sarah departed at. The weather was as atrocious as ever and Sherlock could barely see a foot in front of him. He'd have to move fast.

Sarah's directions were coming more and more sporadic and typo'd, but Sherlock wasn't too terribly concerned for her safely save for the intensity of the storm. His mental street map of London made up for what Sarah couldn't see to tell him. He had already covered a fair bit of distance by walking quickly and powering through deep puddles. How Sarah had managed to get so far in such weather, he didn't know. The rain bounced from his coat, and sunk into his socks. He continued using his false identity as John, a little concerned for when he'd finally reach Sarah as, well, not John. Certainly, telling her he was actually Sherlock wouldn't make things any easier.

There was a five-minute delay that swept over the time between their texts, and suddenly, John's phone lit up brightly. Sherlock had to carefully wipe away the pelting raindrops to read Sarah's words, but, regardless, he didn't need to take in the entirety.

_**Sarah (2:48 am):**__ John, there''s men heree. 3 of them. Thhey won't goo awayy. I'm scareed. I think they're followfdsing me._

Sherlock's heart suddenly started to pound in his chest, and his breathing became deep and purposeful. Now _this_! _THIS_ was fun! Excitement raced through his veins—his energy crackled like an electric current. Finally! He _wasn't_ bored during a storm!  
_  
__**John (2:48am):**__ I'm coming, just hold on. Find a street name._

_**Sarah: (2:49am):**__ Langston_

Sherlock ran faster than he ever thought he could.

Quickly he took four shortcuts between alleyways, and jumped through a few lines of backed up cars. Finally, he stopped, panting, behind an old brick building—and a grand flash of lightning highlighted Langston Street. Sherlock looked in all directions, his lungs burning. _More, more, more, _**more**_, give me __**more**__! _The electric current that had been building inside of Sherlock all day was now rising to a high voltage, frying up his nerves making him feel like every once of his body was smoldering. _It was wonderful. It was fantastic. It was-!_

And then he heard a scream. Sarah's scream. Twisting on the balls of his feet, Sherlock furiously made his way towards the noise, and eventually found himself in a dirty alley littered with the rubbish from overflowing wastebaskets. Dirt peeled down the walls from the rain, and he knew mud was caking his shoes. Another flash of lightning blazed, and he saw that Sarah was exactly right—there was three men.

Sherlock clenched his teeth and curled his fists, walking carefully up behind them, and then he realized he didn't need to be so alarmed. These weren't men—they were merely teenagers, petty thugs at that. But never the less—he could see Sarah's terrified face, tears screaming down her cheeks. They had her countered from all sides of the alleyway. Oh yes, this was going to be _fun._

The filthy boys were only after her purse, but Sarah refused to give it up, and they moved in closer. Time for Sherlock to move as well. Stealthily, Sherlock chose to target the boy that he felt was their leader—it was easy to tell; he had a cocky and overconfident look about him. Sherlock titled his head a little, narrowed his eyes, and quickly jabbed the lad in the straight square of his center back muscle. There was a short pause—a quick intake of a painful breath—and the boy fell face first into the mud, winded. His two lackeys quickly sprang around in intense surprise to face Sherlock.

Sherlock merely titled his head back to normal position, and raised his hand, motioning the boys toward him with his fingers. The bigger of the thugs took a step forward, while the other moved towards Sarah. Sarah pressed herself up against the alley wall, sinking down.

_"John!" _She shrieked.

Quickly, Sherlock slid around the clumsy footing of the first lad, and grasped the back of the smaller lad's jacket, digging his fingernails painfully into the boy's thin skin. He used his thumbs to press as hard as he could into the boy's neck, feeling the boy go limp under him. The rain continued to fall dizzyingly down as Sherlock quickly jabbed the boy's calf with his foot, placing him off balance. He took advantage of the teenager's stumble and quickly shoved him aside and into the trash.

Sherlock then moved in three long strides to Sarah's side, and guarded her with his body, narrowing his eyes sinisterly at the last standing lad. The rain had caused Sherlock's dark hair to stick to the hallows of his cheeks, giving him a dark, dangerous look. He took the look one step farther and bared his teeth with a snarl, and within the space of another rumbling crash of thunder, the boy fled.

Sherlock then crouched down and pulled Sarah up.

"Sarah, are you all right?" Although he was full of excitement, Sherlock kept his voice low and calm.

Sarah said nothing; she simply stared into space, not registering anything around her. The rain started to fall even harder, if that was even possible. _This must be the 'shock' thing, Lestrade was talking about. Of all the times to not have a blanket._ He sighed as he pushed up his sleeves, hoping for better grasp on her very wet clothing._  
_  
Sherlock quickly picked Sarah up off the ground, holding her body away from him as best as he could—ugh, how he _hated_ this. Now his bare arms were going to be dirty. She was covered in mud and had a few scratches, but other than that, she seemed all right. Her hair was plastered all over her cheeks, and her eyes were red and brimming with shed tears. She shuddered into his arms, and Sherlock nearly lost his grip on her, but quickly recovered.

_Nng_—Sherlock cursed as his knee throbbed as the adrenaline faded, but he continued towards the street. Somehow, his bad luck seemed to have changed as he managed to hail a taxi in such a storm, even with the rain mucking up his vision. He pulled Sarah in with him and released her into the passenger seat beside him, but she quickly jerked in fear and crawled for Sherlock's arms, digging her nails straight into his skin. Sherlock gritted his teeth, and tried to pull away—but it only made the pain worse. The taxi driver glanced at him concernedly from the front seat.

"Everything all 'ight, mate?"

"Fine. 221 B Baker Street, please." Sherlock said coolly, still trying to discretely detach Sarah from his arm before he started bleeding. Painfully, and using more self-control than he had used yet tonight, Sherlock sat that like for the remainder of the drive; luckily they weren't too far from the flat.

"Are you sure, sir? Does she need a hospital?"

Sherlock's stomach dropped slightly. _No, as far away from a __hospital__ as you __can__ possibly __get__! _John couldn't possibly seem them like this!_  
_  
"She's one hundred percent. Now please," Sherlock glared, his time for civil appearances wearing most thin. "221 B Baker Street."

The cabbie made no other attempts for conversion.

They arrived; the taxi pulled to a slick, wet stop, and Sherlock paid the man and then moved around the car to collect Sarah. She still seemed to be in a bit of a shock, and so, sighing heavily, Sherlock pulled her into his arms once more. Quickly he moved up the stairs and when he reached the door of the flat, he felt Sarah move.

"Y-you…you could have put me down..." Sarah's soft voice caused Sherlock to snap from his own thoughts. He glanced at her.

"Really?" Sherlock said, quickly releasing the woman and digging for his key. "That would have been lovely to know _before_ I reached the stairs."

"I'm sorry." Sarah said once more, and _this_ time, she really meant it.

"Inside." Sherlock demanded simply, and Sarah—for once—gratefully followed his instructions.

Once inside, Sarah quickly dried off and sat down on the couch once more, piling blankets and pillows around her and all along her sides. Her breathing had finally calmed down, but it was only because she'd finally decided to listen to Sherlock and inhale through her nose and exhale through her mouth many, many times. Finally, her thoughts stopped romping around in her brain like frightened cattle. She straightened up, and pulled her hair into a tight ponytail. She then took another deep breath, curiosity prickling along the back of her neck, instead of fear. Sherlock. _Sherlock_ had saved her. The psychopath had _saved_ her.

"H-how did you—" she began.

"John left his phone during his rush. I was bored. It went off, and I found your text." Sherlock explained, watching bits of water fall from his hair. Sarah blinked slowly, and turned to Sherlock. There was an awkward moment of silence.

"You were right, you know."

Her voice hung in the darkness, and Sherlock slowly responded with a simple disinterested grunt as he peeled the wet cloth of his sleeve from his skin and touched the sensitive puncture wounds there.

"I usually am. But about what this time?"

"Breathing," Sarah wanted to laugh for some crazy reason. Must be from the adrenaline. "Through my mouth. You were right."

"Ah, well—_tch_—" Sherlock paused as he let a painful noise escape his lips. "You're welcome," he added awkwardly. He tried to recover from it, sweat suddenly lining the back of his neck. But it was too late. Doctor Sarah had heard it.

"Oh, oh no! Are you hurt?" She quickly rose from her warm spot, her eyes easily finding Sherlock since their eyes had adjusted to the dark. "Did...did they hurt you?"

"No!" Sherlock pulled away from her, shrinking against the back of the chair. "It's _fine_! I'm fine! No—" Sarah continued forward, her medical eyes continuing to search Sherlock. Quickly, Sherlock leapt to his feet, balancing on the cushion, and then jumped backwards, landing on the floor with precise accuracy. "Please, please don't touch me."

"Your arms," Sarah continued forward, not heeding Sherlock's words. The doctor in her had already kicked in. "They're bleeding…and your fingers, on that one hand.."

"It's nothing, just the candle wax."

"Stop it—come here!" Suddenly Sarah took charge, grasping the thin wrist of the pale detective and pulling him with a bit of resistance back to the couch. "I know John has a first aid kit around here somewhere. Those need to be disinfected and bandaged."

Sherlock sighed, crossing his arms tightly to his chest like a child. "Now you sound like John."

"Well, someone has to take care of you, I suppose." Sarah's lively voice chimed back from the kitchen, and soon she returned with John's first aid kit. "Here, let me see."

She gently reached up and grasped Sherlock's left arm, pulling it easily away from his body. Slowly she lifted up his wet sleeve; Sherlock hissed in pain and Sarah responded snippily, 'Oh, don't be so dramatic.' And began applying some medication, and then, before Sherlock even knew it, they were wrapped in clean, white gauze.

"What caused such deep punctures? I...I don't remember any of them having any weapon…" Sarah's brows furrowed lightly, and Sherlock flinched a little as he tried to pick at the tightness about his arm.

"I don't know," he finally said, blocking and deleting the images of Sarah grasping and stabbing her nails into his arm out of sheer fear.

"Well, here," Sarah held out her hand. "Show me your fingers. The burnt ones."

Sherlock sighed again, and suddenly, the power jolted on and the lights above flickered to a bright, blinding light. Both of them blinked in shock, and Sarah smiled.

"_Light_, yes…yes, light—oh...oh my God! Your poor fingers!" Sarah quickly cleaned them and wrapped them tightly in gauze as well. "That's…my fault, isn't it..?" she asked quietly.

"Yes, but it's not a big deal. John goes on and on about how I should control my temper, sometimes. It's mine too, I suppose." Sherlock cringed internally again. What would _John's _temper be like compared to his?

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Sherlock—"

"I already told you," Sherlock said, not wanting any more attention about the matter—all he cared about now was what John would think of everything.

"No," Sarah went silent for a moment. "I mean...about everything. I'm sorry. And thank you...thank you for coming to get me, after...all I said..."

"It's fine," Sherlock said, casually tossing his head to look away. _Please go away now..._

"Ah," Sarah finally glanced at herself all over in the light, realizing all of the dirt on her skin and her clothes. "Uh…is it alright...if I, um...take a shower?"

"Feel free," Sherlock said, trying to not smile from the sheer bliss of Sarah NOT being in the room with him for five minutes. "I'm sick of water."

Sarah laughed. "Okay. Won't be long."

She began to walk towards the washroom.

"Please," Sherlock muttered, placing his and John's phone on the side table next to him, and staring at it. "Take all the time you want…"


	4. John's Reaction

_**AN:** I'd give you a thousand excuses for the delay, but you guys really don't want that, do you? Enjoy mates. __Forcing Sherlock to go into a movie rental store was much, much, more fun than it really ever should be. _Thank you to _**Charm and Strange**_ for being the most wonderful person in existence and _saving ya'lls eyeballs, and for the idea of Sarah's shirt and help with the split ending- and the clerk's accent. Really, how __do __you deal with me, love._

* * *

Sherlock shuddered to himself when he heard Sarah turn on the shower's water. It was like a proverbial count down matching the weather outside. Sure, the sound didn't bother him before, but now it was a reminder that in mere hours John would walk through that door, and God knows what nonsense Sarah would say to him. How the devil would he get out of this one?

Sherlock quickly picked up the phone beside him, flicking through the messages over and over. Small details of a minute plan began to form, but only to dissipate in what was sure to be overflowing anger from John. He did, after all, terrify John's traumatized girlfriend into the storm of the century.

_Alright_, Sherlock simply told himself. He'd just have to accept John being angry. So, how to make up for it? Hmm…what could make up for causing his girlfriend emotional pain and getting his jacket wet? Suddenly Sherlock's grey eyes focused on a highlighted word on John's phone that his finger had tapped. A text from Sarah talking about the movies from before. A movie. A new movie.  
_  
That's it! I'll just run out a get some those bloody Bond flicks that he talks about so much! Oh God, a video store. How horribly…common._Sherlock quickly leapt up to get John's computer to search for where one such store would be found.

It took less than three minutes, but, strangely, Sherlock was so evolved with the task that he didn't hear Sarah approach from across the room.

"Er, Sherlock, it's uh, well, it's early, but I'm…gonna go to bed. Will you...be alright?"

_Click. Tap, tap, tap, tap,"Fine," tap, tap, click, click _was the only response Sarah got.

"…You're still wet, you do know that, right?"

Sherlock suddenly felt all the water that had sunken into his clothes, and shivered.

"I thought so," Sarah hummed knowingly. Although Sarah was under the notation that he was cold, Sherlock still continued on, his thoughts wrapped up in his plan to appease John somewhat.

Sarah quickly returned with a blanket and awkwardly tossed it to where Sherlock was sitting.

"Thanks again, Sherlock," Sarah said, softly padding to John's room and closing the door.

Sherlock sneered at the blanket next to him, and, for the rest of the of bleak, early-morning hours, decided to look up the first pop-culture item he had ever researched in his entire life: James Bond.

It was 7:03 am when John's phone alarm blared Sherlock's unconscious mind into existence once more. Groaning, and cursing himself for falling victim to sleep regardless, Sherlock clicked off the alarm and pulled a blanket off of himself. He felt disgust briefly as he sought to pick up the flat as best he could. Did he actually resort to using Sarah's blanket during the night, or did she come back and cover him up with it? Either way, it still made him all the more resentful of her.

Soon after the flat was clean enough for Sherlock's taste, he made for a coat, and then the door. Flicking out a key, he tried to open the door, only to no avail. It was stuck fast. Sherlock twisted, trying all manners of lock picking and, later, wire hanger picking, to open the jammed door. Sherlock sighed to himself_. _He remembered something about the door sticking lately, but he hadn't paid any attention to it because of that one case about the Marple murders. He thought John may had fixed it—after all, he remembered using that door yesterday—but... _ The storm must have stuck the door again, and I haven't got a clue when John will be home. _

Suddenly, an idea took him. Windows. And the only reasonably escapable window he knew of was in the flat's bathroom. Never mind that Sarah happened to be taking her morning shower and that the only window in the bathroom was in the shower itself; Sherlock was on a mission. He already had memorized the layout of every room in the flat, so, keeping his eyes closed wouldn't be a problem. The only problem would be Sarah creating a problem. And she always created a problem.

Sherlock softly closed his eyes, and placed a hand on the bathroom's handle. Taking a breath, he opened the door. _How I despise James Bond…  
_  
Sarah quickly caught wind of Sherlock's presence. Sherlock wasn't quite as discreet with his eyes closed as he had hoped.

"Oh my God—_Sherlock_! What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Morning to you too, Sarah, and I promise I'll be out of your hair in a minute."

"What—what are you doing in here?" Sarah called over the rushing water.

"Door's jammed, so I'm using the window."

"And it had to be this window?"

"Of course, all the other windows are much too small."

"Oh…my god," Sarah whispered to herself. It was too early for this. She clumsy grabbed for the nearest towel, wrapping it around herself, and regretfully stepped out of the warmth of the water, still keeping herself within the bounds of the shower. Keeping in mind her thankfulness from last night, she decided just to go with it. Whatever got him out of the room faster.

"And where are you going in such a ridiculous rush this morning?"

"Video store."

"Wha—"

"For John." Sherlock grunted, as if that explained everything, pushing a bit of furniture around to try to better reach the window.

"Sherlock, for God sake, it's okay. Open your eyes."

Sherlock promptly did, craning to look up at the window better.  
_  
_"Do...you...want help?"

Sherlock paused for a moment, his eyes scanning over Sarah's dripping form, clad in a towel. To any other man, this would have been an unbelievable sight. For Sherlock, it was a simple matter of common sense.

"With you in just that towel? I'd rather you not. You'd be perfectly useless in regular clothes, let alone without them."

Sarah wasn't sure whether to take offense or not. She crossed her arms defensively, and muttered under her breath that John certainly wouldn't think so. To Sarah embarrassment however, Sherlock, of course, overheard her.

"Oh well, not like he'd know anyhow." Sherlock stated nonchalantly.

Sarah's eyes widened_. No. No. Sherlock did not just imply…_

As if reading her mind, Sherlock continued:

"It's not too hard to tell when two people have been shagging, and you two clearly haven't been." Sherlock lazy defended himself, finally sliding the cabinet into place and climbing up it, making for the window. Sarah gasped from her spot, dropping her hands and tightly clinching them around her towel.

"Sherlock!" She hissed, sounding uncannily like his flatmate. "How could you even—propose that!"

"Sarah, come now. John obviously isn't a_ virgin,_"-he gritted the word out from between his teeth—"but you on the other hand…" Sherlock let his words fade.

Sarah glared at the man before her, realizing that the window was now open. At least he'd be going soon. She took a calming breath through her mouth. "You know, I thought we were fine! But, but now you're in here—and…just…. I swear Sherlock, I just…I just don't understand you. How could you say something like that?"

"I know, I know, I _know _you don't understand me!" Sherlock snapped, sarcasm running the length of his tone. "Sadly, it's my job to understand you people and your funny little brains."

"Wait!" Sarah called, now stepping out of the shower carefully, soap lining gliding down her legs from lack of attention. "I'm sure there's one thing that we can both level on."

Sherlock was _so close _to freedom, but he turned his head to look back anyhow. The look in Sarah's eyes seemed….Hm. Did Sherlock even dare name the proper emotion now? Aware. Expectant. Knowing. Dangerous.

"You're a virgin too, aren't you?"

Sherlock screwed up his face for a moment in bewilderment, all manners of brain activity colliding to a stop. That question was the one thing Sherlock couldn't quite understand. It was one thing to have to talk intimately with someone, but it was another to have to eat or touch or do something else that could be done with all clothes still in their proper positions—while Sherlock was wildly uncomfortable with intimate talks, he could stand casual touch. But sex. Now that was something that—Sherlock's mind suddenly filled with bitter images of John and Sarah cuddling and eating and talking and—_Oh God, no! They couldn't be...?_ Sherlock felt an unusual burn slide up his spine, his throat, like bile. It couldn't be, no. Sherlock was always sure of himself. Always. _There was no possible way that John would ever be sleeping with her! And God, why would he ever even want to_?

In the mist of all the chaos in the detective's mind, there was a brief, weighted silence. Finally, Sherlock opened his mouth:

"….I don't understand you Sarah, really. How could you ask someone something like that?"

And with that, Sherlock shimmied out the window and dropped cat-like to the alley below, leaving a stunned Sarah in his wake.

The streets were slick and muddy with layers upon layers of leaves and debris littering the rode. Luckily for Sherlock, there weren't any large crowds to avoid or cars mulling about. The trip to the store was longer than it should have been because of the lack of cabs, but by the time Sherlock had finally begrudged himself walking, he was nearly there. The outside windows were streaked with mud and the sign was a faded blue and gold. Sherlock was amazed that the store kept business now-a-days. Another faded black and orange sign announced that the store was open 24 hours, and, for Sherlock's sake, that better have had included huge storms. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

A bell rang out as Sherlock entered into a warm, large room. Dark brown shelves neatly lined every corner and the floor was covered by an old, unsightly light purple rug. Sherlock was taken back for a moment, having never entered this kind of shop before. His eyes scanned the movie genres: _Action, Mystery, Horror, Thriller, Romance, Kids…_

"

Hey!" Called a loud, obnoxious voice from across the store. A young man suddenly approached Sherlock. He had shaggy brown hair and strange green eyes, and was also rather small, yet gangly. Sherlock easily concluded that this was nothing more than a lazy, stupid teenager who'd gotten conned into thinking that working in a video store would be entertaining. Sherlock scowled at him.

"Hey, I didn't 'spect nobody in today. It was nasty last night, weren't it? Need help findin' anyt'ing, mister?"

_Oh God_. Sherlock remarked, easily picking up the lad's accent and pin pointing it to the American city of Chicago. _Americans. _It was too early for this.

"I'm looking for a type of movie called _James Bond_."

"All da car drivin', babe chasin' action ya can ask for is dis a-way." The teen confirmed, marching off to his left. Sherlock reluctantly followed and then internally cringed at the stand before him, his eyes catching on the title of the horrid pop-culture trend:_ James Bond._ It never seemed to end. All his research from last night should have prepared him for this sensation—but he never expected _this.__  
__  
_"Tell me," Sherlock drawled coolly, manifesting his hatred for the bugger spy and aiming it at the clerk. "How many _Bond_ movies are there?"

"How many are there? Whoa, wait, man," the teen's thick accent coiled around his vowels, making them long and harsh like the cawing of a crow. "Whaddyamean how many _Bond _movies there are?"

_Tch_. Sherlock cursed himself. The teen obviously wasn't one to let stupid things go. He quickly rubbed at his injured fingers, unsure of what answer would allow him a less painful experience from John. The teen, however, took Sherlock's silence in an entirely new direction.

"Naw," the teen grinned, "Naw way, you—you ain't never seen a _James Bond _movie?"

Sherlock's brows furrowed a little. No answer.

"_Rambo_?"

Pause.

The clerk continued.

"_Terminator?_"

Sherlock suddenly thought that an interrogation from Moriarty would be less painful than this.

"Well you've least let a chick cry all over ya durin' _Titanic_, right?"

A chill ran up Sherlock's spine. _Titanic_—he'd have to make a note of _never _letting that word into John's vocabulary on a boring Saturday afternoon.

"It makes women cry?" Sherlock asked, bewildered.

"You've…you've never seen _Titan_-ha, well, if you be lookin' fer a movie to watch wit' yer girl, I wouldn't suggest it. I'll save ya the trouble right here."

"It's that awful?"

"Yeah," the clerk snorted. "Chicks bawl. Guys too, mainly 'cause the damn movie's so long."

"But…it's just about the ocean liner sinking, yes? Why would it make everyone so hysterical?" Sherlock asked, raising his brows.

"Uh, yeah, but hundreds a'people died, ya'know."

"People die every day," Sherlock continued, refusing to let even the slightest bit of his internal puzzlement color his tone. "I don't understand why women aren't crying about _that_, then."

The clerk nibbled the inside of his cheek for a moment, and Sherlock took the brief silence to snatch up another video case.

"They're…they're hard t'understand, I guess," the clerk answered, his words frankly blaring the suggestion that he had no idea how to react to the strange bloke before him, but Sherlock no longer paid attention. _God, why did this stupid fictional flamboyant spy take off so well?_ Sherlock internally antagonized, hating the masses. There were so many _Bond_ movies lining the shelf before him. Some with new main actors, new sexiest blonde love interests, new directors…_Bloody hell_, even from different eras! _This is surely Hell on earth. Why for the love of all that is logical would John ever come in here?_

The clerk next to Sherlock quickly reached across Sherlock's field of vision to pick up another case.

"_What?_" Sherlock hissed, a flame of annoyance igniting the glare that he set upon the alarmed clerk. _God, did people have no clue to not bother me when I'm trying to concentrate? First the police, my flatmate, and now a damned public servant to the masses..._

"Sorry, sorry! I was just tryin' ta help you choose more movies fer yer girl. You seem a little lost. But, uh, those four movies should be all right to start off wit'—"

The clerk prominently rephrased his next few words at the look of startled hatred in his customer's eyes.

"To..to watch at all. The rest are bogus, believe me. Yer girl wouldn't like 'em."

A tiny alarm went off in Sherlock's brain._ Oh_. _Oh that's right—I have to go back to Sarah. Bugger._

"Oh…Oh God. Yes. Thanks for reminding me." Replied Sherlock, feeling not so thankful at all.

"Wait, I was just thinkin' an'…I doubt you'd ever seen _Pirates Of The Caribbean_?"

"What?"

"Wit' Johnny Depp?"

"Who the _hell _is Jonathon Depp?"

"Orlando Bloom?" The clerk gasped, amused.

"Who—"

"You have to least set 'cher eyes on Keira Knightley. God, she's hotter 'en—"

"They set her on _fire_?" Sherlock's eyes widen. _My God, what is the film industry sinking to?  
_  
The clerk just stared, and then, after a moment of awkward intense eye contact, tried again.

"Er, don't worry about it man, you'll see if you check out dis movie. I really think you should."

"Augh," Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation. Whatever made him leave this place faster. "Fine."

"Alright!" The clerk happily agreed, walking back over to the checkout line and sliding through the back. He quickly punched some buttons on an old, beat up computer and grinned when Sherlock slid the cases across the blue counter to be scanned. He quickly went through the _Bond _movies, but when the pirate movie popped up on the screen, the clerk smiled again. Sherlock gritted his teeth and braced himself for more painful words that John said most people like to make, called "small talk". In a desperate attempt to escape it, Sherlock quickly pulled out John's video store card.

"John Watson?" The clerk raised an eyebrow, extending his vowels as if he wanted them to take flight. Sherlock nodded smoothly, his thoughts flickering back to John and if this abysmal experience would be worth surprising him. The card slid through with the payment. Sadly, this didn't stop the clerk.

"Well John, yer in for a treat wit dis one. You'll really enjoy it. And—" the clerk chuckled to himself here. "Ya honestly remind me of the main pirate dude—the Depp guy. You're both…well, a li'l…."

To Sherlock's complete (and rare) confusion, the clerk proceeded to do some bizarre arm and hand movements, like he was slightly intoxicated, as if that was completely reasonable and would explain his point. When Sherlock simply stared, the clerk chuckled again and waved a hand as if to shoo away the confusion.

"Well, heh, don't worry, you'll see."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes but managed his facial features by clenching his teeth into a painfully forced smile.

"Splendid."

_Sometime later, back at 221b Baker Street… _

Sarah greeted Sherlock happily as he climbed back in through the bathroom window, slightly confused by the exhausted look upon the dark-haired man's face. He quickly tossed the sack of movies onto his chair and sat down on the couch. Sarah quickly went through the treasure.

"Do you have a thing for James Bond?" Her tone suggested a joke.

"The whole world has a thing for that man, apparently." Sherlock commented stonily.

"Well, John will like this at least. Oh! _Pirates_! Have you never seen it? It's a wonderful movie, I think you'd actually really like it."

"So I hear." Sherlock muttered exasperatedly, snatching up a spare towel and drying off his hair.

"I don't know if John's seen it…we should watch this first! Get you in a better…movie watching mood!"

"Fantastic." Sherlock agreed, trying, for once, to keep the sarcasm out of his voice for Sarah's sake.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, a jangling of keys, scratching noises from a missed keyhole, and finally, a worst-for-ware looking John appeared. Sherlock actually had no idea how he'd managed to open the door, but this wasn't nearly as important as John's impending explosion was.

"Morning all….er, well…God, morning to me, I guess," John greeted, somehow managing a bit of enthusiasm into his voice. His hair was damp with the drizzle outside, and he held himself in a way that suggested that he really didn't want to be standing.

"John!" Sarah gasped in delight, skipping up and throwing her arms around the doctor.

"Ah, hello." John shrugged into her warm embrace. From the couch, Sherlock simply scowled as he started reaching for a movie case, thinking about holding it up to show John:

_How should I begin? "Look, I've gotten those dreadful movies you ramble about!" No, how about: "Hey, movie, John?" Ugh. No, that last one was just terrible...not even remotely genuine._

While Sherlock decided to introduce his plan, John pulled Sarah into a hug. "M' sorry I must have left my phone," he muttered into her shoulder.

"…Uh, er," Sherlock froze at the sudden confusion in John's voice, his eyes twisting to Sarah's back, or more accurately, what she was wearing _on_ her back. _No. No. No. No, NO, NO, NO! That stupid girl! So close!  
_  
"Sarah…why are you wearing Sherlock's clothes?"

"Oh, uh." Sarah was suddenly at a loss for words. _Perfect timing_, Sherlock growled. He could feel John's eyes slowly slide to meet his own.

"Sherlock." Confusion. Almost questioning.

"Ah! No! John! It's okay! Everything's okay! We..just, had, had a, a problem, during the storm! And—" Sarah began. _Too late. The wretched woman just had to open her mouth!_

"Sherlock." Tone shift. Slightly lower than John's normal range. 45 seconds or less to get out of this. Sherlock felt the sweat forming. _Shit, but how? How? It takes no matter of genius to see unreasonable John is about that wretched girl._

"But John, listen! It..it's wasn't..entirely, his fault! I—I got upset! You know!" Sarah quickly gripped John's shirt collar in attempt at calmed restraint for her boyfriend. Her voice dropped into a low, harsh pitch. "Like…_before_?"

Her eyes narrowed, and John quickly understood. It had happened again. It had happened again, and he left her _alone_. With Sherlock. Sherlock, who _hates_ her. Sherlock…who loves to freak people out. Sherlock. Who loves to freak people out that he hates. _Bloody fuckin'-_

"_Holmes! _I swear to God, if you scared her!" John yelled, extremely livid as he softly shoved Sarah aside and made his way towards his flatmate. Sherlock quickly leapt up from his seat in defiance. John's tone was beyond mad, beyond angry.

"John, I think you should listen to your girlfriend." The detective gritted out slowly, in his deep baritone.

"John, please, Sherlock's right—" Sarah gasped. Sherlock decided to make a break for his room, but not before John caught on.

"YOU!" John yelled, pointing at Sherlock, and freezing the taller man into place. "Kitchen. Now. Stay there, while I talk with Sarah."

For once, Sherlock did at he was told, standing in the kitchen, his thoughts flying and wondering briefly if he should snatch up a pan to defend himself against the solider with. It took a bit, but in less than five minutes, John entered the kitchen. John was surprised at how dark it was in the room, since the living room had been so bright, but then again, Sherlock wasn't one to be considerate to others. Any room he occupied had to reflect his mood.

"So," John began, his tone neutral. Calm. Patient. Sherlock immediately saw through that. _Fake_.

"I think you're misplacing your anger on me." Sherlock began, trying to pull this whole thing around on his best friend and his stupid, ridiculous, horrid girlfriend. "You're just upset that you left Sarah alone when you knew of her condition."

"Don't." John whispered, his eyes slits. "Even. Dare. Blame. This. On. Me."

Sherlock sucked in a breath of air, already well-prepared for his defensive rant.

"You didn't tell me about her John, and that—"

"Shut up. That didn't matter! You found out! You're a bloody detective! You saw the signs! I know you did, Sherlock! I knew you would!"

"But still—" Sherlock countered, still barreling through.

"Shut up! _You did this to her!_" John's volume increased, but Sherlock was brave. He tried once more.

"I'm—"

"I said _shut up_, Sherlock! Jesus, for five seconds will you just be _quiet!"_

Miraculously, Sherlock did, biting hard on his tongue and placing himself further into the shadows of the kitchen. John simply sighed, pitching the bridge of his nose and then turning to the pantry to receive a popcorn packet. The silence raged on as the noises tore into Sherlock's mind—which, for some odd reason, remind clueless and silent. He didn't want to be the bad guy here—No, not to John. But he didn't want to upset John further. What if…was it he really did take this too far? What if….John…hated him?

At that thought, something twanged and snapped in Sherlock's chest that gave him the strangest feeling of slipping into a deep, dark pit inside of himself.

The silent war went on just long enough for the popcorn to be properly popped and John quickly emptied the bag into a green bowl. John then turned to his roommate, his blue eyes studying him completely for once, as if he was trying to deduce the great detective himself. Sherlock felt a tremor run through him.

"You're such an ass-" John began, picking at a hot piece of the yellow popcorn in the bowl, and studying it between his fingers, watching the whips of smoke.

"John," Sherlock began, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he even had the time to register— " I'm….I'm sorry."

There was a weighted silence, much, much heavier than before.

"What?" John snapped, frozen in the dim light, his ears perked. "…What was that?"

"You heard me," Sherlock whispered lightly, steadying himself against the counter top. He felt extremely nervous, leaving his thoughts dead in his skull. His palms were slick. He felt light-headed. Sick. He didn't want to repeat himself. In the bits of wavering light from the living room, Sherlock saw John moving towards him.

"Sherlock..." The detective braced himself as best as he could. Was John going to hit him? Throw him out? He flinched.

"Tell me what you just said."

"I'm..." Sherlock managed, slipping against the counter top. "Sorry."

John didn't smile. "Look—"

Sherlock suddenly opened his mouth and, for the life of him, went on the fastest tangled rant John had ever heard him say.

_"John,please-let-me-just-say-that-I-completely-understand-your-disappointment-in-me. I-just-don't-know-what-caused-me-to-treat-Sarah-as-I-did._  
_But-the-strange-truth-is-that-whenever-I-see-you-two-together-something-just-comes-over-me-and,"_

"Sherlock, shut up, and let me finish." John quickly interrupted, not catching a word his panicking roommate was saying. "I said: Look, I know you're an ass. But, for what it's worth…. thank you. Seriously. And don't worry, I know you're sorry. I mean, hell, you went out in storm to get Sarah, who I know you can't stand….and then you went and got movies—_James Bond _movies, of all blasted things-"

To Sherlock's confusion, John's words suddenly turned into withheld laughter. "Sorry, sorry. This is just…really…nice of you."

Sherlock bit his bottom lip to stay quiet.

"… You can be such an ass, but, I mean, even Sarah defended you, so, obviously, something good must have happened out of all this. And even better, I get to punish you more by having _Bond _movies in the house—all thanks to you. And…partially..yeah, you're right. I…I do feel terrible. Horrible, really. I wasn't there…again..to..to protect her. And I don't mean from you. Just…I always leave her. And…I'm sorry, for not telling you..I just..figured that, you already didn't like her enough. I didn't want to force you to have to look out for something else about her. And...the damned storm. I didn't think it would cause her to react so badly… It..it's just so stupid now. I don't know what I was thinking."

John paused, swallowing nervously.

"Ever since The Blind Banker case..she's just been a wreak if I'm not there. I'd call it PTSD but Hell, everyone jumps to that conclusion now a days. You saw that I was misdiagnosed with it. And she's a doctor—she doesn't think she has it either…but regardless, that also means that she won't admit or get help to..whatever it is…. Of course I had to leave her, with you…and her blaming you..and you…well, being _you_."

John took a moment to breathe, sighing tiredly, and ran his fingers through his hair, then lowering them to rub his temples. He slowly smiled. "Just think Sherlock, perhaps there is one more person on this planet that actually likes you."  
_  
_Sherlock titled his head slightly._ John…did that...for me? He took recognition that I don't like his girlfriend…and is okay with it?_

"Yes," Sherlock then rolled his eyes discontentedly, taking in the small kitchen to make up for his lapse of sentimental thought, his brain firing back up from its moment of despair. "I'm just _so_ glad she likes me now. And, John, you really shouldn't be so surprised at yourself. You never think." Sarcasm that even John could understand.

"Piss off," John said testily, but his tone had lightened somehow. He quickly picked up the bowl and went back into the sitting room.

Sherlock quickly let out huge breath of air that he'd had no idea he had been holding in. His chest ached. His legs shook. It was like a brand new drug high. He didn't know how to begin understanding this feeling.

"Sherlock!" John's voice suddenly rang out, and John popped his head back through the doorway.  
"You're not out of this yet. Get out here and sit down."

"Of course John... But only if you change your shirt. You've got Sarah's lipstick stain all over the collar. It's just unsightly. Disgusting, really. It's like being at that dreadful theater in my own home," Sherlock added with a slight smirk.

"What—how?" John abruptly stopped. "Holmes. Get out here and watch Johnny Depp."

"Ah, right! Who _is_ that fellow?" Sherlock asked earnestly, walking towards the door.

John simply sighed as he held open the door for Sherlock to pass through.

"Sherlock…this is going to be a _long_ movie night."

* * *

___**AEN:** Annnnd that's the end! Was it worth the ridiculous wait? Probably not, but if it made you smile, my day was at least made. Sherlock totally wouldn't know about Johnny Depp. Also, I love makin' John call Sherlock 'Holmes'. It's sexy. Wait, what? Thanks for reading. It means the world. :3 Thanks to my lovely editor again, **Charm and Strange**. _And for you, dear reader, for dealing with me and, hopefully, giggling to yourself. It's all I ask for.


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